


Alive

by strigital



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Miraak Lives, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 11:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20865842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strigital/pseuds/strigital
Summary: Miraak's first gulp of air outside of Apocrypha, as well as a first proper face-to-face with his nemesis Konahrik.





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr: https://strigital.tumblr.com/post/177204561254/alive

He is awoken by a cough. A sudden need for his body to take in a large gulp of air, to get all of the Apocryphal dust out if his lungs which yearned to expand after an eternity spent shriveled and dormant. Then comes the pain. Sharp and deep, somewhere behind his fast-beating heart. His hand flies to his chest, attempting to grasp at the hurting area as instincts tell him to, only for him to come upon tight linen bandages pressing down onto his ribcage, hardened due to all the blood that dried on them. Ah, now it all comes to him. Familiar pain like the one inflicted upon him by Vahlok the Jailer; his ribs are broken to pieces, stabbing at his lungs and heart, penetrating the chest muscles, poking at the bruised skin somewhere beneath all those layers of bandages that keep him from breathing deep and, by doing so, worsening his injuries. He opens his eyes and stares at the low stone ceiling, dusty and covered in moss and spider webs, glowing with a faint bronze tint, probably due to a fire lit somewhere nearby. His eyes start to burn mere moments later, as if someone just threw sand into them. And whilst he lay there, with tears slowly dripping from under the tightly shut eyelids and his chest raising and falling with abrupt and shallow breaths, he’s thinking. 

His head is hollow and all he can think of is devouring darkness, cold yet comfortable, enveloping yet welcoming. Something swallowed him, something big, so big it might as well be endless. What was before that? Blinding flash of acid-green light and pain, horrible, unspeakable pain that punched him in the ribs, broke through his spine, tore out everything in its path, leaving him a wrecked shell.

He died.

He was victorious at the Summit of Apocrypha, his hand on his Sil Briinah throat, his cold blade pressed against that fallen Dovah’s spine, his words slow and steady slipping from his lips, just quiet enough for him to pretend not to hear them, those words which he so suddenly, so furiously didn’t want to say:

“Dovahkiin, zii los dii du!”

And that would be it. The long awaited apotheosis. An epilogue to that absurd story, which was the fall from grace of the dragon priest Miraak. He saw blue sparkles through the slits of Konahrik’s mask and he thought to himself… Dragons do not cry. They weep, yes, even mourn. But they do not cry. The body underneath him tried to squirm, but even then he failed to understand. By the time he noticed an oily black shadow fall upon him, it was too late. And then there was pain. Shattering his ribs, tearing out his heart, breaking through his spine. Then – blackness never-ending.

He feels a shiver, as if the entirety of this place in which he is shaken by something huge. Dust falls from the ceiling, landing on the man’s sweat-covered face. Another painful cough, another jolt of pain deep within his wrecked chest. The rumble subsides, and so Miraak attempts to get up. He’s hurting all over and he wants to scream his pain away, but he doesn’t. He gets up slowly, within good five or even ten minutes, with grunts and moans, silenced by his tightly shut jaw. He sits there on the edge of a stone bed with countless furs tossed over it, staring at his bruised feet and the floor beneath them, not quite ready yet to try and stand up. He takes a look around. A familiar to his eye rounded form of the room tells him that he is in a Nordic burrow. It looks old, millennia old, but still clean, cozy and warm. Dried herbs hanging by the walls, old weapons and armor tucked in the corners here and there, small piles of knickknacks all over the place - it all made this ominous place feel like somebody’s home. There’s small fire pit in the center of the room, near it – a pot with something medicinal boiling in it. Someone’s boots, dirty and worn, covered in mud and dried blood, stand near a wall, next to them – a long bow with dragons head carved into its handle; the weapon looks well-loved and taken care of, unlike the boots… His own robes are just right there, laying on a table, clean and patched up – the sewing needle is still nearby, stuck into a ball of dark-green yarn. His mask is also here, gleaming in the light of the fire, polished with love and care, not a single scratch or patch of dirt on it. Miraak’s slits stare back at the man who wore its name, empty and cold, looking so unnervingly creepy so far away from his face, giving him an impression that he’s looking at his own decapitated head. The man’s eyes quickly wander away from the cursed mask, until he sees another one. The very familiar mask with curved tusks and a fresh scratch across its forehead where a sword recently struck… And then a flash before his eyes: his voice strong in a victorious roar as the curved sword with black tendrils enveloping its blade descents down onto his nemesis, the scratching of metal against metal and a burst of sparks, and then his enemy falls to the ground, stunned and defeated. And then it all finally falls into place for Miraak and now all he can think about is why?

Why?

Why?!

Why…

His body suddenly gains strength as rage and desperation all in equal measure fill him to the brim. He jumps to his feet without as much as grunting at the pain and limps his way towards the darkness behind the doorway where the light from the fire place cannot reach. Like in a feverish dream he stumbles his way through a seemingly endless hallway, lead only by the subtle draft against his cheek and faint echoes of running water and wind. An eternity later he feels grass beneath his feet and squints when the sunlight pouring through a broken gate to this burrow reaches his eyes. He stops once he reaches the edge of a dark cocoon in which he slumbered for what seemed like ages. He stands there for an endless moment, letting the wind caress his broken, aching body with a warm touch. He looks at lush green pines swaying in the wind and finds it unspeakably pretty how sunlight plays in the branches. He listens to birds and cannot recognize a single song. And then he sees a small and bubbly stream of translucent water running down and around this burrow. It runs and runs down the forested hill upon which he is standing and falls quietly into a bigger stream. Suddenly he’s overcome with irresistible thirst and so he moves again. His body screams in agony, but he resists the urge to fall and lay there on soft grass, gasping for fresh air and wishing his painful misery to be gone forever. When he finally reaches the edge of the water, he’s so unreasonably joyous and delighted, that he cannot even recognize himself anymore. All the little fish scatter in fear as the man falls onto his knees and splashes water onto his aching, suffering body. The burning pain washes away with sweat and dried blood and he feels alive. So unspeakably alive he throws his head up to face the bright blue sky above the towering pines and with his hands thrown wide open he laughs. He laughs like a child and cannot get enough of the feeling of water dripping from his hair and down his gravely wounded, but very much living body. And when he stops to breathe in he sees her. On the other side of the river hips deep in the water, with her skin covered in countless droplets of water that sparkle in the sun like tiny stars and her eyes like two flawless sapphires giving him an amused smile. He doesn’t know who or what she is and he thinks he must be truly dead for all of this feels like the Realm of Azura herself, but then he sees it: the long, curved cut, haphazardly sewn together with a horse’s hair, stretching from her ear, down her neck and across her collarbone, disappearing right in the middle of her breasts tightly bound together with a thick linen cloth. That was the wound he inflicted upon Konahrik, when his enemy’s armor gave in under the pressure of countless attacks with both his sword and his Thu’um. Suddenly, his paradise shatters to a million pieces and vanishes like fog in the morning. Suddenly, he realizes something that makes him frown his brow and stare at her with a mute question in his eyes.

“Slept well, I reckon?” she simply says.

And her voice is nothing like her deafening Thu’um that resembles a wolf’s bark. Here and now he hears forest birds in her voice and that makes him wonder how cruel must Akatosh be to curse such a creature with the soul of the Dov.

“Why?” is all he says, his voice hoarse and raspy for his throat needs to adjust to making sounds again.

They stare at each other without words for the longest moment in their lives. But then she drops her eyes, smiles so nonchalantly as if they weren’t two most deadly enemies in all of Nirn and picks up soaked clothes from the water, which she was busy rinsing before a man drunk on pure bliss stumbled into the river and distracted her from her laundry.

“If you’re finally feeling well, I suggest you get dressed and ready. We’re late.”

“Late to where?” he frowns.

“How about I tell you along the way?” she dodges the question again.

Then suddenly he hears echoes of roars and beating of two massive wings. He’s already steadying his breath and getting ready to let out a Shout, when she speaks again.

“Are you hungry, by the way?” her voice is so careless it makes Miraak furious in an instant.

He’s about to ask her how she can be so deaf with ears so big and not hear a damned dragon approaching, when a massive black shadow flies over his head. The branches of pine trees crack as they break and a heavy carcass of a dead elk drops behind Miraak. He stares in confusion at the dead animal and giant claw marks on its hide. He hears her yell “Kogaan, Fahdon!” at the sky and shortly after there’s a delighted roar echoing back at her. Before he knows it, the heavy beast lands on top of the burrow, perches himself like some sort of an oversized bird and begins to groom his wing, not caring in the slightest for the presence of Miraak. Yes, the very same dragon just without his armor: small and sleek, with forward-curving horns and a thick feathery mane on his neck. Konahrik made sure that during their battle at the Summit Miraak had no way of hurting this beast, going so far as to deliberately taunt Miraak just to keep his attention away from the dragon. Konahrik knew of Miraak’s power to tear a dragon’s soul from its body in an instant. The fool was ready to die just to keep that pesky flying lizard alive and well.

As if able to somehow hear Miraak’s thoughts, the dragon ceases what he was doing and looks at the former dragon priest. He tilts his head to the side, staring at the man with intense curiosity and without a single sign of hostility. The beast doesn’t seem to perceive Miraak as a threat, nor is he looking at him as a prey.

“So uh…” woman’s voice comes from behind, tearing both of them from an entranced staring contest.

The dragon goes back to grooming himself. Miraak turns and finds the woman mere steps away from him. Now, without her bulky Nordic plate she looks small and thin like a linden tree, standing in the shadow of the man who’s almost two heads taller than her and twice as wide in the shoulders. It’s hard to believe that such a creature was able to slaughter all of his former dragon priest brethren as well as a couple dozen of Alduin’s servants. Yet, despite feeling like he could snap her neck with a single squeeze of a hand, Miraak feels in a presence of an equal. Had that feeling since the moment he laid his eyes on her back when she first fell from the green sky of Apocrypha and into his domain. Now though, he is in her domain. And it would seem the tables have turned. He wonders what would come next.

“So you’re gonna eat or what? I personally hate traveling on an empty stomach” she says, so casually it hurts Miraak’s head.

She then grabs the bulky elk by its antlers and drags the carcass of an animal twice her size with such ease it makes the man raise his brows in sincere amazement. It seems his nemesis has no intention in killing him or answering his questions, at least not tonight. He would ask her a hundred times again in the future, but for now his body needs strength to heal and that strength comes with food. And so he follows her back into the burrow, where she’ll clean up his old, smelly bandages, feed him a warm bowl of elk stew and present him with his newly patched up clothes, all the while talking and babbling and chirping about things he won’t understand. Somehow, he feels that she’s hiding something from him, some sort of terrible truth that makes her fuss over him in an attempt to prematurely apologize for whatever she’s got in store for him in the future. Future that was more foggy than ever before, but a future nonetheless. But for now he’s just happy to be alive and as far away from Herma Mora’s sticky tendrils as possible. As for Konahrik… She may regret it all later.


End file.
